


London Spring

by MUSEquera



Category: Muse
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 21:16:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3705051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MUSEquera/pseuds/MUSEquera





	1. Chapter 1

I looked lovingly out of the window at the slice of blue sky visible from my desk. With a sigh, I brought my attention back to my art project—a portrait—that was going nowhere fast: my research failed to yield the least bit of inspiration.

The window drew my eyes again. Early spring and here I was, stuck inside killing my eyesight trawling through art sites, instead of enjoying the unusually warm weather. Another sigh, this time one of acknowledgement—since I was getting nothing useful done, I might as well enjoy the sunshine.

Before guilt had a chance to set in, I grabbed my sunglasses off the coffee table, pocketed wallet, phone and keys, and made my way out of the flat, skipping down the stairs like a kid let out of school early. 

Once outside, I put on my sunnies and squinted up at the sun, its balmy warmth caressing my skin. It was one of those rare days when London, having washed herself clean in the last of the winter rains, suddenly preens in the unlikely sunshine like an eager debutante in her ball finery, perfumed with the young, heady fragrance of a myriad blooms. 

I shook myself out of my reverie. Where to?

The warm, green scent of freshly trimmed hedges, redolent of shady wooded paths, gave me the answer: the park. Not the manicured gardens, or the wide lawns strewn with people young and old sunning themselves like lizards. No. My feet found their own way to my favourite haunt, the NW corner, with its wooded areas sloping gradually towards the lake.

As I walked, the dappled light shining through the soft green of newly unfurled leaves turned tree-lined streets into magical places, the subtle perfume of cherry blossoms cutting through the harsher, metallic scents of the metropolis.

When I walked under the first grove of trees, I could feel my shoulders relaxing, the hard knot between my shoulder blades beginning to loosen. The vaulted trees, the leaf litter and spring grass underfoot, the shafts of soft golden light filtering through the canopy of beech and oak and hawthorn and hazel, created an enchanted space, only disturbed by the sounds of distant birds and the occasional chattering squirrel.

I wandered aimlessly, hands in the pockets of my jeans, enjoying the peaceful, cathedral-like atmosphere, rejoicing in the occasional mass plantings of daffodils scattered through the woods, looking like distilled sunshine. As I got close to the lake, I became gradually aware of the most delightful sound, liquid and evocative, muted and diffused by the trees that surrounded me. I stilled, closing my eyes and turning a full circle to try to pinpoint its origin. 

After a few moments, I had it; ahead and to my right, towards the lake. I made my way quietly across the grass towards what was now clearly recognisable as a guitar being masterfully played, placing my feet carefully not to make any noise that might disturb the player and stop the glorious sound.

As I broached walked around a bend in the path, I was finally able to see the source of the music, a weedy guy sitting cross-legged under one of the old willows lining the bank, only a few feet away. The moment my eyes fell on him, my fingers itched with the need to draw him, and I knew I had found the subject for my portrait. I stopped dead, leaning against the reassuringly solid trunk of an oak as I took him in. 

He was tiny, so tiny that at first I thought he was a child. He looked about twelve, but I slowly came to the realisation that he was probably closer to my age—early twenties. Longish, messy dark hair contrasted vividly against ghostly pale skin; a bright red top hung off his bony shoulders, clinging to his chest as he hunched lovingly over his guitar, to show the sharp outline of his ribs; pipe-cleaner thin legs encased in black denim; slim long feet clad in a pair of battered black sneakers.

His eyes were closed, a rapturous expression on his narrow face as the slender, elegant fingers of his right hand blurred over the strings in a flawless gliding tremolo that echoed softly off the surface of the water. His guitar was as remarkable as he was; even to my untrained eyes, its varnish glowed with a mellow golden patina that spoke of its age and pedigree, and of exquisite care. This was no mass produced cheapie, and he was no busker after a few quid for a beer.

I was so caught up in watching him, mentally sketching him as he sat there playing, that for a moment I didn't realise that the music had stopped, so when his eyes opened and he looked straight at me I nearly fell backwards. They were impossibly blue, the improbable colour of vincas in spring, fringed by long dark lashes, accented by delicate, wing-shaped eyebrows, and they fixed on me with an intensity that left me breathless.

We stared at one another, neither of us moving or speaking, as if time had ground to a complete stop. I could feel my heart beating faster and faster, my breath coming out in short, harsh puffs. His eyes held me captive for long moments, until, with a bird-like motion, he ducked his head and gave his whole attention to laying the guitar reverently in its battered hard case, the interior lined with red velvet—silk, by the way it shone in the sunlight.

Fear that he'd leave and I'd never see him again unstuck my tongue, "Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you. What was that you were playing? It was beautiful." He gave me a sidelong, wary look, and for a painful moment I thought he was going to up and leave without saying a word. In the end, though, his face softened into a shy, tentative smile as he answered, "Recuerdos de la Alhambra."

I looked at him uncomprehending and, with a light shrug, he went on to explain, "Memories of the Alhambra. It's a classical Spanish guitar piece." His eyes left mine as he spoke, to check that the guitar was safely cocooned in its red velvet bed before closing the lid and securing the clasps, and I felt their loss as a physical thing. I would have done anything to gain back his attention, so I blurted out the first thing that came into my mind, "I've never seen you here before." 

I saw the corner of his lips twist in wry amusement just before he lifted eyes sparkling with mischief to meet mine, "Are you seriously asking me if I come here often?" I just stood there with my metaphorical foot stuck firmly in my gaping mouth, berating myself for an utter fool and squirming with embarrassment. And then he giggled. It was the happiest, silliest sound, and I just couldn't help giggling along with him. 

"Sorry, that was stupid..." I started, taking a step towards him, just as he picked up his case and stood up gracefully, saying, "Sorry, I shouldn't have taken the piss..." And there it was, suddenly we were both giggling again, facing one another not three feet apart. He gained his composure before I did. Changing his grip on the guitar case to his left hand, he extended his right and introduced himself. 

I stared at his hand as if it were the most fascinating object in the whole universe, captivated by its spindly fingers tipped by long nails, entranced by its sharply outlined tendons, which belied its delicate appearance. Shaking myself before it became too awkward, I stammered out my name, fluttery as a schoolgirl, and took his offered hand.

His grip was dry and firm, the warmth of his hand in mine sending shivers down my spine, and I held it way past the boundaries of acceptable social convention. He didn't seem to mind, answering my wan smile with a dazzling one that crinkled his gorgeous eyes and proudly showcased a doozie of a crooked front incisor.

He was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Sharp, high cheekbones under skin that had the flawless appearance and hue of fresh magnolia petals. A wide forehead under a mop of black hair that fell in clumps across his eyes, but could not hide a well defined widow's peak. Thin lips the colour of raspberries that stretched into a wide, sunny smile that made his eyes shine as if lit from within, and unveiled cute sharp canines and shapely small teeth, their perfect alignment marred by the crooked one front and centre. Pointy, delicately shaped elfin ears. A subtly cleft chin centred on the elegant line of his jaw. A misshapen beak of a nose that scrunched endearingly as he smiled, and somehow anchored his mismatched features, vaguely ferrety looks transformed into arresting beauty.

We both let go at the same time, and he fidgeted with his guitar case, shifting it back to his right hand. I searched my brain for something to say. I wanted to ask him to sit for me. I wanted to ask him out. I wanted...

"I normally stop at the cafe on my way home." he suddenly blurted out, startling me, eyes firmly fixed on his trainers, and then went on, looking up at me from under his lashes, "Would you like to come along, join me for a cuppa?" I stared at him blankly for a couple of seconds. He was asking me out? Then my brain caught up, and I nodded, a grin spreading across my face, "Yeah, I'd love to." With a flash of smile and a quick, "Cool." he turned on his heel and started walking along the path. 

I scrambled to catch up, and we fell into step. He walked with barely contained energy, skinny legs striding confidently, guitar case swinging, and I had to adjust my pace to keep up. We were silent for a while, and then, without slowing down his stride, started an efficient and keen interrogation, his eyes turning to mine inquisitively as I answered. He was a good listener. He breezed through my defences, and I found myself taking freely about me, about my life, something I had always had trouble doing, perhaps as a learnt defence mechanism. 

I told him about the pain of coming out to small town parents who could not understand how their bright, blond, perfect child had turned into what they considered an abomination. About friends lost and a new life found in this most beautiful of cities. About experimentation and heartbreak. About my dream of becoming a painter. About evenings spent tending bar to pay for my studies, and late nights trying to keep up with the city's vibrant music scene.

It wasn't all one way, though; he answered the odd question I managed to squeeze in candidly and earnestly, talking at breakneck speed, punctuating his answers with graceful flights of his hands, the guitar case briefly turning into a hazard for passers by. I found myself watching him as he talked, trying to memorise the curve of his eyelashes as he looked into the distance trying to find the right word, the angle of his head as he looked at me for confirmation of a point he'd made, the shape of his elegant, expressive hands.

He gave me glimpses of a brilliant if rather unconventional mind, a free spirit, and a libertarian soul. Openly gay, his coming out story was a polar opposite of mine; his gran, with whom he'd lived since his early teens, open minded and loving, had encouraged and supported him to be true to himself. He was on an advanced programme at the Royal College of Music, available only to, as he wryly put it, "freaks of nature". The self-proclaimed little freak was taking every modality of piano and guitar available on the programme, with composition thrown in "to spice things up".

I asked about the guitar piece he'd been playing, and he told me it was a virtuoso piece he'd fallen in love with as a little kid, when his gran, a great lover of all things musical, had taken him to one of Narciso Yepes' last public appearances at Carnegie Hall. "That's when I decided I was going to be a musician." I looked at him in astonishment, "At four years old?" He grinned at me, "Yup. Freak of nature, remember?"

By the time we reached the cafe we had established an easy rapport, and I realised that after half an hour's acquaintance he knew more about me than most people in my life. By mutual agreement we found an outside table in a secluded corner, under a trellis hung heavily with wisteria. After propping the guitar case safely out of the way, he sat down opposite me, planted his elbows on the table and propped his chin on his fisted hands, looking at me in frank appraisal.

I sat back on my chair, faintly amused at his scrutiny, and enjoying the chance to look at him openly, glorying in the way the dappled light fell across his face, light and shadow turning his already striking features into something ethereal, otherworldly. After a few minutes of mutual staring, I could no longer bear the driving urge to commit his form to paper. "Hang on, don't go away, I'll be back in a tick," I said, getting up, "if the waitress comes, would you please order me some tea?" He gave me a confused, slightly worried look, probably thinking me completely barmy, but in the end he nodded, "Ok."

I dashed into the cafe and made a beeline for the small shop to one side of the entrance, full of the usual paraphernalia of chi-chi mementos for the weary tourist. I quickly walked around scanning the shelves until I found a small unruled notebook, a pencil and an eraser, all of them emblazoned with 18th century botanical renditions in faded shades of pink and green. I took my selections to the counter and waited impatiently for the young guy at the till to scan them. Throwing some money at him, I gathered them in my hand and rushed back outside, tearing the wrapping off the notebook as I went, half expecting him to be gone.

To my relief, he was still sitting at our table, a study in light and shadow, reclining back on his chair with his eyes closed, loosely laced hands resting on his chest, outstretched legs crossed at the ankle, face tilted up towards the light, the hint of a smile on his lips. 

Yes!

Since the moment I'd first seen him, I'd been trying to decide how to draw him. Looking at him now, sprawling contentedly in front of me under the wisteria, he looked like the embodiment of a London spring, bright colours and soft light and peaceful slumber, and I knew in my heart that this was the portrait that I wanted to paint.

Placing the eraser in my back pocket, I opened the notebook and started sketching right there where I stood, propping myself against one of the trellis's posts. I worked quickly, almost feverishly, a man possessed, and soon several pages were covered in sketches lovingly rendered in painstaking chiaroscuro.

"What are you doing standing there?" The sound of his voice brought me out of my self-absorbed drawing frenzy, making me jump a little, and I looked up guiltily. He looked at me with a puzzled little frown, as if trying to decide whether to make a run for it, and then his eyes alighted on the notebook, "Were you drawing me?" With a sigh, I made my way back to the table, sitting down and placing the open notebook between us. "Yes. Sorry, I should have asked first, but you were perfect, just then. I didn't want to miss the chance." 

He pulled the notebook to him and leafed through the pages, his eyes widening as he took in the sketches. There were several of full sketches of him sitting under the wisteria, using different techniques, variations of light and shadow; then studies of his crossed hands, his closed eyes, his smiling mouth, the graceful angle at the juncture of collarbone and neck... 

Mouthing a silent 'wow', his eyes flicked to mine, "These are stunning!" I squirmed self consciously and looked down at my hands, uncomfortable with praise and filled with self-doubt, muttering, "Thanks, they're just sketches." He passed the notebook back across the table and placed a hand on the tight knot that mine had become, narrowing his eyes at me, "Don't! I may not know anything about art, but any fool would realise that this shows amazing talent."

His words held such fierce intensity that I wouldn't have known how to respond, even if the warmth his hand on mine hadn't driven all breath out of my lungs. Unsure of what to do with the feeling of rightness that filled me at his touch, I squirmed in my seat, my eyes firmly fixed on the play of slender tendon as his hand squeezed mine.

"Please don't hide." he pleaded, his voice just above a whisper, "tell me about the sketches." The quiet entreaty brought my eyes up to meet his, "I have been looking for a subject for my final year project—a portrait." He nodded encouragement when I paused, so I went on, "When I saw you by the lake, I knew I wanted to paint you—" I paused again, taking a deep breath, "You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Would you sit for me?" 

I could feel my cheeks flaring red at my own words, and I looked at him from under my lashes, to find him smiling so widely that the most adorable twin dimples bracketed his gorgeous mouth. "Does that mean I get to see you again soon?" he asked, and I could feel an answering smile spreading lazily across my still blushing face as I nodded.

"In that case," he said, leaning across the table until I could feel the warmth of his breath on my skin, and lacing his fingers through mine, "the answer is, most definitely, yes."  
 


	2. Chapter 2

"Hey, did you see that?" For the umpteenth time, he moved out of pose—this time his attention caught by a heron flying overhead to follow the bird's flight path with a rapt smile as he helpfully pointed it out to me. "I don't think you quite get the whole concept of 'sitting'." I said with a long-suffering sigh, putting my sketch book down. I was starting to learn his little ways, and staying still for any length of time seemed to be beyond him, "You are actually supposed to sit still, you know." 

"Sorry, sorry, sorry, I forgot again." With a wince, he hastened to rearrange himself, managing to look as contrite as a little kid called to the headmaster's office, so I smiled at him, gripping my left wrist with my right hand and flexing my fingers to relieve the the tension in them, "It's ok, I think we could both do with a break, my hand is starting to cramp."

He perked up at that, getting up smoothly to stretch like a cat, and I wished I could still time, preserve his unselfconscious beauty as he stood there, outstretched slender limbs highlighting the outline of wiry muscle, the red shirt I'd asked him to wear again riding up to reveal a sliver of pale skin, his neck arching gracefully as his head tilted towards one shoulder to stretch tight muscles. I wanted to capture every single facet of him, learn every minute detail of his expressive face and vibrant body.

Completely unaware of the effect he had on me, he walked across to where I was sitting and plopped down on the chair next to mine, taking a last sip of the frothy, syrupy, iced concoction he'd ordered to my amusement and internal shudder, slurping noisily through the straw to get the last drops out of the tall glass. "May I see?" he asked once the glass had been sucked completely dry, his tone full of curiosity, but completely devoid of demand. 

After a moment's hesitation, I passed him the pad containing the output of the last two hours, a detailed working sketch, complete with colour and light notations. Despite the constant interruptions, line and form had flowed effortlessly, and I’d worked with the kind of fierce focus that tended to yield my best work. And this was, without a shadow of doubt, my best work by a country mile—I’d poured everything I had into it.

I’d spent the week that had passed since our first meeting filling sheet after sheet with sketches of him, vivid memories of our brief encounter hijacking me at odd moments, nagging at me until I exorcised them by committing his form to paper. I could not get him out of my mind, his smile, the way his fingers had felt interlaced with mine, the brief touch of his lips as we’d parted ways at the park’s gate, after we’d exchanged numbers and agreed to meet again—the week long separation, dictated by our work and study schedules, stretching interminably.

That morning I’d been up by first light, throwing myself into the business of getting ready to go out, the excitement of starting a new project vying with the heady feeling of knowing that I’d be seeing him again in a few hours. Time had seemed to stretch interminably until, unable to bear staying within the four walls of my apartment a second longer, I'd taken myself to the park an hour too early, thinking I might as well treat myself to breakfast at the cafe while I waited for him.

My feet had taken me straight there, for once unmindful of the beauty that surrounded me, my thoughts filled with him, only to be brought to a completely stop when I found him already sitting at 'our' table, whiling away the time by slowly destroying a cluster of the wisteria blossoms one petal at a time, a layer of petals sprinkling his lap and the ground at his feet. 

He seemed to feel my presence at the same time I saw him, his eyes lifting to mine and his whole face lighting up in a heart-stopping smile as he got up and, taking the few steps that separated us, stood on tiptoe to breathe, “Hi.” against my lips. My head swam at his closeness, and it took a concerted effort to stay within the confines of his light kiss, to school my breathing to a normal pattern, to smile and say, “Hi, yourself.’ when my brain, my body, were screaming at me to take him in my arms, crush him to me, and kiss him breathless. 

“What do I do?” he asked as soon as the fleeting kiss was over, “Do I just sit there doing nothing?” Breakfast was forgotten in his eagerness to get started; he was as excited as a little kid with a sparkling new toy at the thought of sitting for a portrait. Just as well too. Given the butterflies that had taken flight in my stomach at the sight of him, I didn’t think I could have kept my food down. 

It took a while, getting him set, seated under the wisteria, my hands lingering on him as I posed him, making his eyes sparkle in a way that was dangerous to my physical and emotional balance. “There you go, now close your eyes and relax.” I encouraged, squeezing his shoulder lightly, before retreating the few paces to the table where I’d left my drawing supplies. 

Working hard at not sounding as breathless as a lovestruck teenager, I went on while I set up, “Try to think of whatever you were thinking when I was sketching you last week. I could work off those quick sketches if I have to, but I’d like to be able to capture that expression on your face properly.” 

Eyelids lifting just enough to show a thin sliver of blue, a little smile tugging at the corner of his lips, he said simply, “That should be easy. I was thinking of you.” My barely there restraint nearly evaporated at that, but then his eyes closed again, and there it was—the expression I wanted to paint. Without conscious thought, my hand had reached for a pencil and started drawing, and then I was completely lost in the magic of rendering his beauty on paper.

Focus broken only by his sporadic twitching and losses of concentration, I'd worked until he called a halt in the proceedings, declaring that, unless he was fed breakfast, he could not possibly be expected to sit around doing nothing at all for even one more second. Which led to the frothy syrupy ice concoction. And coffee. And croissants. And while we had breakfast, we'd talked about our respective weeks with an ease that surprised me, as if we’d had years of practice, indulging in the little intimacies of a shared smile or a light touch to punctuate the telling.

Surprisingly, it was him who called me back to task, getting up from the table to shake crumbs off his clothes and, ruffling my hair with a cheerful, “Let’s get this show back on the road, then.” going back to take his position under the wisteria.

And so it was that I found myself, an hour later, biting my lip fit to draw blood, nervously awaiting his verdict after his first peek at my work. 

"Is that how you see me?" he asked with a slight frown after staring at it for a few moments, his voice bringing me back to the present. Worry nibbling at the edges of my mind at his question, I looked at him in confusion, and, rubbing furiously at his face with both hands, he went on, "Aaaarrrggghh, that didn't come out right." He took a deep breath, "What I mean is... I look..." his hands took flight, as if to shape his words with them, "ethereal..." another pause, and the slightest of head shakes, “unattainable, like you’ve put me on a pedestal.” 

My eyebrows arched in surprise, and I looked at the drawing with fresh eyes, realising that the was right, that I had let my growing feelings for him spill into my work, the result a figure of unearthly beauty, untouchable, unreachable—unattainable.

I took a breath to speak, but he was there first, his voice muted, with a sideways look that was in sharp contrast with his usual confidence, “I don’t want you to think of me as unattainable." He shook his head, and his eyes had a distant, wistful look as his fingers lightly brushed the sketchbook, his voice detached, as if he were talking to himself, “This… I could never live up to this version of me.” 

He scooted closer, his knees brushing up against mine as he leant forward, fever bright eyes on mine, “I want more from you." Bringing his fisted hand to his chest, his voice no longer a whisper, he went on, "I want you to see me. All of me," a wry smile, “including my oh, so many faults and annoying quirks."

His eyes darkened to an impossibly deep shade of blue that had no peer in nature, and his voice took on a breathtaking intensity as his hand closed on mine, his warmth bringing life back to fingers closed in a death grip around my pencil, his thumb drawing slow circles on the skin of my wrist, “This—you and I—feels right. Let's not spoil it with unrealistic expectations."

His words hit me like a blow, the pencil slipping between my fingers to clatter loudly on the table's surface. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to regain my composure, and, when I opened them again, he'd let go of my hand and was sitting back on his chair, his lower lip snagged on his crooked tooth, uncertainty written all over his face as he asked, "Too much?"

I just stared at him, thrown off balance and relieved in equal parts by his straightforward honesty. "Sorry," he blurted out when I didn't answer, "I need a filter between my brain and my mouth." I could feel his withdrawal, the light in his eyes dimming as time seemed to stretch endlessly, swallowing his words. Forcing myself to take a deep breath, I finally answered his question, reaching my hand across the table towards his, praying he would accept the contact. 

"No. I'm sorry." I blurted out, closing my eyes briefly in relief as he laced his fingers through mine, "You're right, I tend to do that. Put people I like on pedestals, I mean..." I stopped, not quite knowing how to go on, but I had his attention again, his eyes sparkling hopefully, his fingers lightly squeezing mine in encouragement, so I went on, haltingly, "I... I guess you could say I… I idealise people when I get… attached.” 

On the last word I covered my face in embarrassment with my free hand, berating myself for a clumsy idiot, the warmth of his hand in mine the only thing keeping me from bolting—at least he hadn’t upped and left. Of all the moronic things to say… Full of trepidation, I sneaked a peek at him from between my fingers, trying to gauge his reaction. 

The shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips widened as he caught me looking, and, letting go of my hand with a squeeze, he sat back in a show of nonchalance, saying, "Attached, huh?" Despite my embarrassment, I nodded, and had to laugh at his resulting twatty grin and ridiculous, over the top preening. Removing my hand from my face, I swatted his arm with a good natured, "Shut up!" which, to my eternal amusement, led to a childish few rounds of 'no, you shut up's, until we were both giggling like bloody idiots at nothing at all.

Once he recovered from the giggling fit, he chinplanted on his hands, eyes still sparkling from his laughter fixed on mine, just as he'd done the day I first met him. It should have been unnerving, especially given the context, but I found myself relaxing under his gaze, my thoughts idly picking up and exploring the derailed conversational thread.

"Yes, I think you could say I'm getting attached." I surprised myself by saying, and I will admit to feeling a teeny bit of self-satisfaction at the way his eyes widened at my words. In for a penny... "At the risk of getting a restraining order slapped on me, I'll admit that I've thought of nothing else all week, and I've just about filled every scrap of paper I could get my hands on with sketches of you." 

I shook my head, put like that it did sound kind of nuts. I liked the way he seemed to bring me out of myself, though, I liked this reckless version of me who didn't give a toss about telling a bloke I had only met once that I was kind of obsessed with him. And I liked even more the fact that he didn't seem to mind either, the way he was smiling at me.

"I like you. Can I keep you?" he said, taking my hand again, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and I think I may be forgiven for my slow reaction—he seemed to have this knack for unbalancing me with his directness. I just gaped at him for a few heartbeats, waiting for my brain to catch up, "Did you just ask me out?" His smile was something to behold, "No. It would appear I've just asked you into my life."


End file.
